My Lady Quicksilver ls-3

by Bec McMaster

  He thought this a ploy. Rosalind looked away. “I’m planning to give myself up in exchange for Lynch. They want Mercury, so I’ll give her to them.”

  “What?” Mordecai looked incredulous, then a canny expression crossed his face, a smile. “Tole you a woman ought not be in charge. Them weaker emotions be the death o’ you.”

  “I know.”

  He shook his head. “A blue blood, eh. A bleedin’ Nighthawk.”

  “The Nighthawk,” she corrected.

  “Aye. And still a bleeder.”

  “So I used to believe.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. “They’re not like the Echelon.”

  “No?”

  “No.” A small smile crossed her lips. “If it makes you feel any better, I quite suspect the greatest threat to the Echelon won’t be you or I. It will be the Nighthawks. They’ve already got an army; they don’t have to build one.”

  Silence greeted this statement. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. “You believe that?” No matter his bravado, she sensed the need in him. The desire to know that this wasn’t all for nothing.

  “I do.”

  “You ain’t so bad,” he muttered. “When you ain’t so cold. A pity. We coulda worked well together.”

  A humorless smile touched her lips. “I set the Nighthawks on you,” she reminded him.

  Despite the bruises, he almost smiled back. “That were clever. I ain’t never suspected that.”

  The words trailed off as both of them peered through the barred window at the back of the prison cart. Her stomach fluttered. Getting closer now. They were nearly at the tower. She could almost feel the looming shadow of it over the prison cart.

  “What would you ’ave done, if this ’adn’t ’appened?” Mordecai suddenly asked. “If ’is lord Nighthawk were free and you weren’t facin’ the guillotine?”

  She had to think about it. Indeed, she’d had so much time to think lately—about everything she’d done wrong or right, everything she might have done differently. “I wouldn’t start a war,” she said. “Not in the streets. Not the way I planned. There was something Lynch said…about war not being the way to win. The Echelon are so strong because they are feared, because no one dares to speak against them.”

  “You’d speak against them?”

  “I’d find a way,” she said. “Perhaps I’d join the Humans First Party.”

  “Join?” He laughed, a rough burr. “You wouldn’t follow. Not for long. You’d want to lead.”

  “Perhaps I’ve learned my lesson,” she replied. “Or perhaps not. Who knows? The point is moot.”

  The prison cart slowed down, someone shouting in the background. Then Garrett’s voice, cutting through the shouts as he proclaimed, “Prisoners. For the tower.”

  Their eyes met. Mordecai paled beneath the swarthy layer of grime. “Do you think they’ll call us ’eroes out in the streets?”

  “Anything is possible.” Rosalind’s breath caught. She could taste fear, see it in his eyes and knew he saw it in hers.

  “Always wanted to be a ’ero.” He took a deep breath as the lock on the back of the cart rattled. “Guess this is it. A damned shame—after all we did—that it ends ’ere.”

  “With nothing gained,” she agreed hoarsely.

  Their eyes met. Mordecai nodded slowly, thought racing behind his eyes. “They don’t even want me, do they? All they want is Mercury.”

  Rosa nodded.

  Mordecai licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Guess I’m dead then and the bastards won’t even remember me name. Curse ’em. Curse ’em all to ’ell.”

  Twenty-seven

  “This is ridiculous,” Barrons snapped, stepping to the front of the dais in the closest he’d ever come to confronting the prince consort.

  “You dare defy your prince?” The Duke of Bleight asked.

  Of course that vulture would be here. They all were, Balfour taking the place left vacant by the demise of the House of Lannister. He drummed his fingers on his chair, the only sign of movement apart from the eagle dart of his eyes.

  Lynch stood with his shoulders squared and his head high. He couldn’t quite control the racing beat of his heart. Death would never have been his choice, but then he had no choice. He could have handed the mech leader over in some attempt to sway the prince consort’s mind but that was dangerous. Too many people knew who Mercury was and Mordecai was the only one whose tongue he couldn’t control.

  “I offer council,” Barrons replied icily, “when the rest of you would rather bite your tongues and bob your heads for fear of offending.” He turned to glare at the prince consort. “I know I’m not the only one who thinks this is foolishness. I’m just the only one who dares voice it.”

  The prince consort cut him a sharp look. “You’re very close to crossing the line, Barrons.”

  “And then we would be down two council seats. Perhaps you would prefer a dictatorship?” Barrons replied.

  A dangerous move. But Lynch saw the thoughtful flicker in several of the councilors eyes. They were clinging to power and they knew it. All it would take would be for them to unite against him and the prince consort’s stranglehold would be over. But that would never happen so long as every councilor served his own purposes first.

  As if he couldn’t control it, Lynch looked at Bleight. The duke was getting older, perched like a vulture in his chair as he glared at Barrons. Firmly in the prince consort’s pocket. For the first time, Lynch wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t refused to duel his cousin. If that were him sitting up there, trying to hold the Prince Consort at bay.

  His breathing quickened. He didn’t regret a thing, not truly, no matter how much heartbreak both Annabelle and Rosalind’s deceptions had wrought, for to have done things differently would have meant he would have been a different man.

  Yet perhaps it would have been better for others. For the humans, the mechs, and the rogues, the ones the Echelon ignored as inconsequential. He could have held a position of power, of influence.

  The lack of power irritated him now—to live or die by this man’s whim.

  The prince consort finally turned his attention on Lynch, ignoring the speculative looks between his councilors. Or perhaps not fully aware of them. The queen stood at his side, her pale hand resting on his shoulder and her vacant eyes wandering the room. The fact that she stood while her husband sat was indicative of the power shift between them. Slowly her gaze settled on Lynch.

  One powerless puppet to another.

  “Do you think this is wise?” she asked quietly of her consort. “Sir Jasper has served us so very well over the years. Remember when he found cousin Robert for me?”

  The prince consort shook her off. “Nearly two decades ago. He has not served us so well since. The city is almost overrun with humanists.” He glared at the Council. “Or has anyone forgotten that mayhem last night? Is nowhere safe? I can’t even sign a damned treaty in these halls or attend the opera in peace! No.” He turned back to Lynch. “I gave you a chance and you failed. I swore then that you would share Mercury’s fate and you will. Guards!”

  Sir Richard Maitland took great pleasure in kicking his knees out from under him. The man had been stripped of command for failing to find Mercury and wore the ordinary epaulets of a lieutenant.

  Lynch hit the marble hard, a fist in his hair wrenching his head back and the tip of a blade against his throat. Light streamed through the glass ceiling and Lynch suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  This was it.

  The doors slammed open. “Wait!”

  His heart plummeted. Garrett’s voice. What was he doing here? Lynch jerked off balance, Maitland’s blade pressing hard against his throat. At least one other person didn’t want the disruption.

  “Who is this?” the prince consort demanded.

  “Lynch’s second, Your Grace.” Barrons sounded almost relieved. “Temporary Guild Master, Garrett Reed.”

  “And your
companions?” The prince consort’s snarl was lethal.

  “You said he had three weeks to the day to deliver Mercury,” Garrett announced. “Let him up. I’ve come to bring you what you want.”

  No. No. No. Lynch grabbed the knife and shoved it away, slicing his hand in the process. But he had to look. Landing on his hands and knees, his gaze went straight to the door.

  Garrett stepped aside, revealing a hesitant pair in the doorway. Lynch barely saw the tall mech in chains, with the iron brace holding his knee in place so he could walk. All he could see was Rosa, standing there quietly, swallowing hard as her gaze darted around the room. Their eyes locked. Proud and beautiful and defying him with her knowing gaze.

  Don’t.

  But it was too late. The council’s breath caught, seemingly at once, as attention turned to the pair in the door.

  There was only one reason she could be here. She loved him. Truly loved him. He saw it in her eyes as her weight shifted forward. No! The irony of it tore through him, that she was giving him everything he’d wanted from her—only for it to be the last thing he now desired.

  “Where is Mercury?” the prince consort asked coldly.

  “Right here,” Garrett shot back.

  And Rosa took a deep breath and prepared to step forward.

  Twenty-eight

  “You wanted Mercury?”

  The voice startled her as Mordecai shoved past, pushing her out of the way roughly as he stared cockily at the Council. “Well, ’ere I be.”

  Shock tore through her, freezing Rosalind in place. All she could see were Lynch’s furious eyes as he glared at her. He froze too, turning his gaze on the sturdy mech.

  “Afraid o’ just one man.” Mordecai laughed. “Look at you all. Perched up ’igh in your Ivory Tower. And ’ere’s me, got to you even ’ere.”

  The prince consort shoved to his feet, his eyes glittering with icy rage. But at least they were no longer resting on Lynch.

  “I want his head,” he snapped. “Bring me his head!”

  The Master of the Coldrush Guards gaped at the prince consort, shooting Lynch a disappointed look. As Maitland moved toward Mordecai, Garrett stepped between them.

  “You’ll honor your word?” Garrett dared to ask. He looked nervous; no doubt he was. None of them had expected this. “Lynch brought down Mercury. You said it was his life or the revolutionary’s.”

  “Then get him out of here.” The prince consort’s hungry gaze never shifted.

  Lynch slowly pushed to his feet. Garrett bowed and stepped out of the way, his hand finding hers in the shadows of his body. She squeezed it back.

  Mordecai glanced over his shoulder. She stared at him, an almost inexplicable sense of sadness sweeping through her. How truly she’d underestimated him.

  He gave a loose one-shouldered shrug before turning back to the Council. “Aye, kill me then. And know that I’ll die a ’ero. They won’t ever forget me, out there in the streets. And they’ll finish what I started, what we ’umanists started. Your days are numbered, you pasty maggots.” His laughter bounced off the roof. “You think this ends this?” he shouted. “You think my death will stop us ’umans from risin’? This is just the start!”

  “Seize him!” the prince consort screamed.

  Mordecai’s words echoed in the chamber, but she knew who they were aimed at. Use it. Use this chance. Do what neither of them had managed so far. His sacrifice floored her. He’d already been dead, but at least this way he earned them a chance.

  The Coldrush Guards grabbed his arms and yanked him to the brass circle cut into the marble floor. His knees were kicked out from underneath him, the whites of his eyes flaring as they yanked his head back. Rosalind jerked, her fist tightening around Garrett’s. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t find that inner coldness that protected her at times like this. She felt it as the sword rasped over Mordecai’s throat, and swallowed hard against the lump in hers.

  “Mount the head on the tower wall,” the prince consort said coldly. “Let the masses see what happens to those who dare defy me.” His voice rose. “Let them come at me and see how defiance ends! I will not be cast down. Not by you. Not by that horde of filthy unwashed humans! You are cattle!”

  Then the sword slashed down, blood spraying over the marble floor. Mordecai’s body jerked, blood fountaining from his throat, then it hit the ground.

  So quickly. Without even a formality. Rosalind stared at the spreading pool of vermillion on the alabaster tiles, as they dragged the body away. That could have been her. Should have been, except for this one small act of mercy—of heroism. Heat sprang up behind her eyes.

  You won’t be forgotten, she vowed. And neither would her own pledge. He hadn’t given her this chance for nothing.

  Garrett squeezed her fingers. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand. But Lynch was alive. And so was she and somehow they had pulled the wool over the prince consort’s eyes.

  She could hardly breathe for the lump in her throat. And then she saw Balfour.

  He watched her with those emotionless black eyes, his lashes so colorless they were almost white. Not a fool. He never had been and he knew; she saw it in him. He alone of the Council had watched her foot shift as she made to step forward, to claim the name of Mercury. She watched swift expression dance across his face as he made the connections. He was the one who’d sent her to spy on the humanists, on Nathaniel. After years of believing her dead, she had suddenly shown up, just as the name of Mercury was on everybody’s lips.

  One word and he could condemn them all.

  But he didn’t say it. The moments ticked by and he glanced down, toying with the signet ring on his finger. Strain tightened his face. He’d never once betrayed his prince, yet at what cost would this take? What would he demand of her?

  She looked for Lynch, frightened and unsure. Their gazes locked and she knew that he understood her fear.

  “You’re lucky your man has your best interests at heart,” the prince consort said to Lynch with an oily smile as he settled in his chair. “If he’d stayed his arrival another minute, he would have been able to cast aside the label of temporary Guild Master and replace it with permanent.”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand loyalty then, Your Grace?” Garrett again.

  Lynch cut him a look and shook his head in warning.

  The prince consort stared at Garrett for an uncomfortable minute. “Oh, I understand loyalty.” His smile vanished. “Lynch, you may go.”

  Rosalind let out a breath. Please. Let them get away from this awful place.

  But Lynch paused, turning to face the council, his boots almost in the puddle of blood Mordecai’s body had left behind. “I do believe you promised something else, Your Grace. Some incentive, should the revolutionary be brought to justice.”

  Silence.

  Barrons stepped forward, clad entirely in black velvet with a ruby dangling from his ear. “You swore that you would revoke Sir Jasper’s rogue status and name him one of the Echelon.”

  The prince consort’s smile died. “So I did. Thank you for reminding me of that, Barrons.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “And so I declare it. Sir Jasper Lynch,” the prince consort called. “I officially revoke your rogue status and name you one of the Echelon.” A nasty little smile twisted his mouth. “As such, I strip you of the title of Guild Master of the Nighthawks. No blue blood could remain amongst the rogues.”

  “I agree.” Lynch straightened.

  He was up to something.

  Drawing all eyes, Lynch took a step back, his boot heel cutting over the brass circle. Then another, until he stood fully within it. He met the Duke of Bleight’s gaze and gestured with a mocking little twitch of his fingers. “This has been a long time in coming, Uncle. I challenge you for the duchy of Bleight. First blood.”

  The prince consort’s grip tightened on his chair, his face going white with fury. And Rosalind understood what Lynch had planned. Her heart leaped—
then fell. If he won this fight, he became a duke and would join the council. There would be no place for her at his side.

  But he would be free of the threat of the prince consort’s power. Safer perhaps with power of his own. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny him that.

  The Duke of Bleight slowly levered himself to his feet, his ancient face expressionless. Most duels were to the death. Not only was Lynch offering a reprieve, but in the Echelon’s eyes, an insult. Would his pride overcome his fear of mortality? They all knew how uneven this match would be, even Bleight.

  The rest of the council waited with bated breath.

  “I accept, you little cur.”

  Twenty-nine

  Three days later…

  The wind tore through her hair as she stepped down from the front door of the brownstone manor and Rosalind clamped her gloved hand to her hat. Her heart was still hammering in her chest. She’d done it. Without a shadow of a lie or even omitting a single detail. Everything she’d just won had been with the truth.

  Her burgundy skirts flipping around her ankles, she crossed to the plain black steam carriage that waited at the curb. It was rented, of course. Jack blew warm air into his palms through the open hole in his respirator and then stepped forward to open the door for her. People stared. He’d tugged the collar of his coat up to hide the half mask, but still their eyes lingered and women grabbed their children by the arms and dragged them away as if afraid whatever contagion he had might spread.

  Rosalind reached for him and squeezed his hand. Asking him to step out of the dark shadows he’d hidden in for the past eight years was an enormity she didn’t underestimate.

  ��So?” he asked, ignoring the crowd as if he didn’t give a damn.

  “Sir Gideon has agreed to have lunch with me on Friday at the Metropolitan Hotel. He’s cautious, but he certainly seemed interested in what I had to say.” Excitement bubbled up in her chest. “Oh, Jack. You should hear some of his ideas. I always thought the Humans First party to be nothing but hot air but he’s not. He’s actually quite clever.”